by Kyla Stone
“Some of them are. Some of them have been fed lies. And some of them are innocent. If we kill them all, we’re just as bad as the worst of them.”
“If we get what we want, so be it.”
“No,” he said. “I used to believe that, but I don’t anymore. It nearly destroyed me. I was lost, but the people I loved brought me back. They showed me there’s more to this life than hate and retribution. There has to be more.”
“Not for me.” She swept her braids out of her eyes and gestured at the burned side of her face. “Don’t you get it? I am what I am.”
“People can change.”
Her hands balled into fists on her lap. In the shadows, her eyes gleamed black as onyx. “Not me.”
12
Amelia
Two guards and four armored drones remained outside the door to Amelia’s suite, ostensibly for her protection, though Amelia still hadn’t seen anything or anyone inside the Sanctuary’s walls that she needed protection from.
Except maybe President Sloane herself.
Amelia’s room was exquisite, finely decorated, and scented with lavender. The modern furniture was a mix of soft fabrics and shades of graphite. A domestic service bot waited discreetly by the door, humanoid hands folded, awaiting instructions. The star-studded night sky shone through the opened French doors leading to a private, glass-enclosed terrace.
The terrace was her favorite spot in the whole Sanctuary. It was a garden enclosed in glass. Lush green vines twined the walls on either side of her. Flowering plants exploded with colors—orange marigolds, deep purple chrysanthemums, crimson roses, bone-white lilies.
Something fluttered out of the corner of her vision. A delicate teal-and-black butterfly alit on her forearm. There were more of them. Dozens. They rested on flower petals, their shimmering wings undulating slowly, or fluttered lazily through the sweetly scented air.
“Sunlight on,” she instructed the AI. Warm artificial sunlight flooded the terrace from a port in the ceiling. The glass walls turned dark, reflecting the light. She glanced down at the wrought-iron table, its top inlaid with sparkling chips of sea glass, and lifted the 18th-century Guarneri her father had found for her.
For the next hour, she played and played, her right arm moving in smooth, practiced motions. She played with skill and precision, but also with passion, reverence, devotion. The music flowed through her fingertips, her veins, filling every cell in her body. The ecstasy and longing and anguish of the notes vibrating through her bones took her away, away to a place of peace and beauty, a place where her soul was free.
Finally, as the last golden notes of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto faded, she placed the violin in its case back on the table. Her hand strayed to the charm bracelet hanging from her neck beneath her silken sapphire robe. Her fingers touched the leather thong.
Micah.
Micah had made it for her so she could keep it safe. Micah was still out there somewhere with Silas, possibly in grave danger. Along with Gabriel and Willow and Finn. They were all outside the Sanctuary, where everywhere was dangerous.
She unclasped the bracelet and held it in her open palm. The diamonds winked in the artificial sunlight streaming through the glass in rainbow prisms.
She hated her father and loved him. He’d hurt her and saved her. And now he’d warned her, attempting to save her again.
What if he was lying about President Sloane? His last-ditch effort to destroy her and steal her happiness. He’s telling the truth. You know he is.
What was she supposed to do about it?
There’s good in the world. And it’s worth fighting for. Micah’s words were a mantra she repeated over and over inside her head, clinging to its promise, its hope.
She wished he were here right now. She missed his quiet strength. His resolve. His unwavering certainty and belief in something more, something better. His faith.
She missed his presence. His warm smile and dark eyes, the slightly skewed glasses he was constantly fixing. She knew what Micah would do in her place. She knew it like she knew every note of her favorite songs, every bowing technique to bring out the desired pitch and timbre—the soul—of her beloved music.
There was a knock on the door to her quarters.
“Vera Longoria-Castillo is here to see you,” the AI purred.
A tiny, lemon-yellow butterfly no larger than her thumbnail landed on a daffodil. Its wings opened and closed, opened and closed as it sucked in the flower’s nectar. Something glittered in the upper left-hand corner of the glass roof. A camera lens. Amelia stared at it, unblinking. “Let her in.”
A moment later, Vera’s heels clicked across the marble floor. She paused at the French doors leading to the terrace. She wore a jade-green wool skirt that flared gently at the knees and a pair of buttery-soft, heeled leather boots.
“You’re so lucky,” she gushed. “You have one of the butterfly gardens! I think I’d kill for one of these.” There was a barely perceptible edge to her voice that suggested she might want to.
Her smile was too bright, her teeth flashing white, though her eyes betrayed her. They were hard, full of judgment. Amelia wanted to stare her down, give her a piece of her mind. Instead, she dipped her chin courteously and dropped her gaze to her lap. “How may I help you, Vera?”
Vera swiped something on her holopad. “President Sloane would like you to say something tomorrow. We’ll announce the cure before, ah, the sentencing is carried out—” she fumbled awkwardly, as if she’d forgotten it was Amelia’s father awaiting execution. She recovered quickly, her smile widening. “You’re young, beautiful, full of verve. You are just what our people need right now. The girl who lived. A symbol of hope. It will be simply perfect!”
“Of course,” Amelia heard herself say. She pasted a sweet smile on her face to match Vera’s. Be the doll, she thought. Be the sheep. She couldn’t let them see who she really was, what she really thought—especially now that she knew the truth. She couldn’t let them see the wheels turning in her mind, the plans taking shape behind her eyes. “I would love that. What an absolute honor.”
“Excellent! The President’s advisers have already prepared your speech. I’m sending it to your SmartFlex now so you can practice it, but don’t feel you have to memorize it. There will be a hover-teleprompter for you.” Vera swiped the air over her holopad as she prattled off a dozen details Amelia barely heard. “Oh, and President Sloane says don’t forget to get your beauty sleep! We want you at your best tomorrow!”
Amelia nodded. “I will do my best. Please thank President Sloane for me.”
“Of course. Oh, one more thing.” Vera’s smile unpeeled from her face like a sticker. “Your mother wishes to see you.”
Amelia went rigid. Was she strong enough for this, too? But she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t give Vera or President Sloane any reason for suspicion. “Wonderful. Please let her in.”
“As you wish.” Vera’s clicking heels faded as she strode away to check off the next duty on her list.
A moment later, Amelia’s mother entered. She wore an elegant creamy white dress embroidered with seed pearls that glinted like a thousand tiny moons in the light. Her glossy auburn hair was pulled back in a French twist. She was as graceful and beautiful as royalty, looking every inch as elite as she was. “Amelia, I’m so glad to see you safe and well.”
“Don’t,” Amelia said through gritted teeth.
“I can explain. Please, just listen—”
“We went through Atlanta to rescue you,” Amelia said. “All of us. Gabriel, Finn, Willow, Celeste. The people you betrayed when you came here. They all agreed to risk their lives for you. Tyler Horne nearly killed Celeste. Finn was shot. He lost the use of his arm. And Jericho…” She pushed back the pain, forced herself to keep going. “The Pyros murdered him. Right in front of us. We would never even have been there if not for you.”
Her mother’s hand fluttered to the hollow of her throat. “I cared deeply for Jericho. I mourned
him, too. I didn’t want you to rescue me. I never asked for any of it.”
“That’s not the point. Each one of them went willingly because they cared, because we’re all together in this, because they’re good people. And what you did…that’s how you repay them?”
Her mother pursed her perfectly rouged lips. Her chin quivered. “I’ve always been willing to do anything, to suffer anything, for your safety. I only did what I needed to do—”
“You’re wrong,” Amelia interrupted, willing her voice to remain calm, barely repressing the bitter anger flaring through her.
Her mother plucked a white lily and stroked its petals. “I don’t trust the Patriots, not after what we suffered on the Grand Voyager. I never wished to put Gabriel or Willow in danger, but I have to think of you. I am your mother. You can hate me for the rest of your life, but please know—I’ve only ever tried to keep you safe. Don’t you want to stay here?” Her mother spread her arms, encompassing the terrace, Amelia’s quarters, the whole Sanctuary. “Don’t you want this?”
Amelia felt the warmth of the artificial sunlight on her cheeks, the whisper-soft touch of the butterflies against her skin. She breathed in the jasmine-infused scent of the gardens surrounding her.
No more seizures. No more migraines. No more fear and hunger and cold. She would have her violin, her music. Opulent living quarters. Sumptuous dresses. Gloriously hot showers daily. A luxurious bed. Decadent food delivered on a silver platter. Her mother and her brother by her side. Peace and comfort. Safety.
She shook her head. “I can’t just—”
Her mother grasped her arm. “You have to think of yourself for once. Forget everything else!”
What if she could forget it all?
Forget that her murderous father awaited his execution. Forget that her own mother had betrayed her friends stuck outside the safety of the Sanctuary. Forget that President Sloane intended to keep the cure for herself, that Amelia’s plans to smuggle the cure had burned to ashes. Forget that she was trapped here, a gilded prisoner in a gilded cage.
Forget that war was coming, with everyone she cared about in the cross-hairs.
But that was impossible. She couldn’t forget. She could never forget her friends, everyone and everything she loved. She didn’t want to, not for any price or reward or dream.
“No.” Amelia blinked back hot tears. “There are things more important than safety.”
“The Patriots won’t win this war, Amelia. They can’t. The Sanctuary is too strong.”
“That’s not true—”
Her mother dropped the lily on the table next to Amelia’s violin. “The New Patriots attacked us yesterday.”
Amelia stiffened. Every cell in her body went cold. She stared at her mother, aghast. “What? What happened? Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I hear—”
“Because President Sloane wanted to spare you the worry and heartache. And I agreed. It was a pathetic attempt, Amelia. The Sanctuary demolished their forces in less than an hour. I told you, I picked the right side. I picked the side that will protect us.”
Her lungs constricted. “What about Gabriel? Willow? Benjie?”
“I don’t know.” Her mother rubbed her forehead. Suddenly, she looked ten years older. She looked genuinely sorrowful. “I hope they’re fine. I truly do.”
It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough.
Amelia rose to her feet. A cold, frightening anger thrummed through her. “I need you to leave.”
Her mother wrung her hands together in front of her stomach. A flash of uncertainty crossed her face. “Amelia, please understand. When the Headhunters took me hostage, every minute of every day I only thought of you. I vowed that if I ever had the chance again, I would do whatever I must to keep you safe.”
“Get out,” Amelia said, louder.
Her mother flinched like she’d been slapped. She chewed her lower lip, her mauve lipstick staining her teeth. She hesitated, as if hoping Amelia would change her mind.
But Amelia didn’t change her mind. She stood on the terrace stiffly, her back rigid as butterflies danced and fluttered all around her, the scents of hydrangea and jasmine filling her nostrils, until her mother turned swiftly and swept from the room without a word.
The camera in the corner stared at Amelia with its tiny dark eye. Watching, always watching, waiting to see what she would do.
She fingered her charm bracelet around her neck. She closed her hand around the violin charm, pressing her palm against the sharp point until it hurt.
Her mother had made her choice. It was the wrong one. Amelia wouldn’t make the same mistake. She couldn’t.
Her friends were in danger. It was time to act.
Amelia knew what she should do, what she needed to do. The question was, how far was she willing to go?
13
Gabriel
Gabriel shifted impatiently and peered through his scope past the tree line. Still nothing. His muscles ached. His shoulders were stiff, his fingers half-numb from the cold.
Gabriel and Cleo hunched behind a facade of rocks, dirt, and branches along a steep hillside overlooking a winding mountain road. They’d been waiting for a Sanctuary transport truck to pass by for over six hours.
The Patriots planned to ambush the truck, load the Phantom inside it, and use it to gain access to the Sanctuary’s service entrance. Several of their inside guys would be waiting on the other side. Once inside, they’d neutralize the cannons and take down the Sanctuary. “How long do we wait?”
“However long we need to,” Cleo said. “Theo’s man said the truck was coming today. So it’s coming. We wait for the signal.”
Less than twenty minutes later, a voice spoke over their comm. “Target spotted, three miles back.”
They fell into a focused silence, tense, ready, waiting. Several minutes later, the whirr of the electric engine betrayed the transport’s presence. Through the trees below him, he glimpsed a white-and-blue truck rumbling up the hill.
It stopped thirty yards directly below them. Just ahead of the truck, the fallen birch tree they’d chopped that morning blocked the road. Voices echoed up the hill as two men got out of the cab.
Gabriel slipped on the tactical goggles. He swiped the side of the goggles and flipped through vision overlays—GPS mapping, night vision, electronic detection, infrared.
The world turned to distinctive shades of yellow, purple, orange. He searched for yellowish-red, human-shaped forms. There. A glimpse of glowing red, an arm or a leg through the trees. He pointed silently.
“Hostiles out of the box,” Cleo whispered, activating the squad radio transmitter. “Two heat signatures on the move.”
The reply came a moment later. It was General Reaver, who had refused to remain in quarantine for the battle. She was back at the compound, clad in a hazmat suit and directing operations from the war room. The helmet muffled her voice only slightly, though her frequent, ragged coughs were disconcerting. Especially for Cleo, whose mouth tightened every time her mother came on the line. “Alpha Team One, lead the assault, but protect the transport. It must look pristine for the mission.”
Gabriel gripped his rifle. “Got it.”
From across the road on the other side of the hill, five more Patriots began their slow creep down the jagged incline.
“The hostiles are chipped, but we’re outside the Sanctuary’s range, according to Theo,” Cleo said. “They’ll suspect something when these guys don’t report in or return tonight. But we’ll have plenty to distract them.”
“Copy that,” Gabriel said.
“We have to take the hostiles out before they can report our presence. You know that, right? Each shot has to be a kill shot.”
His every sense was alert, his body taut, adrenaline flooding his veins. This was war. This was life or death. He managed a tight grin. “Is that a challenge?”
“If you can handle it,” Cleo scoffed.
“Watch and be amazed.” Gabriel hunched behind
a tree, rifle butt braced against his shoulder, and peered through his tactical goggles. The two glowing orange-red bodies were making their way into the woods, about ten yards apart. They were taking a break to piss.
“They’re wearing body armor,” he said softly into his comm. “Aim just below the bottom of the neck, top of the chest. A chest shot knocks them down but not out. Get them in the throat, and they’re gone for good.”
“Noted,” she said into his ear, though she was thirty yards away now, creeping through the underbrush. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
He switched his tactical goggles from infrared to zoom before peering through his rifle’s scope. He steadied his breathing. The first soldier—burly, with a blonde ponytail—turned at a forty-five-degree angle, his head momentarily bent as he unzipped his pants.
A twig cracked to Gabriel’s right. The man’s head jerked up.
Gabriel pulled the trigger. The silencer made a soft pfft sound. The man’s body jerked like a puppet on a string. Red arterial blood sprayed into the air. He clutched at his throat, gurgling. Then he went down.
“A little slow,” Cleo said in his ear.
He pulled away from his scope. Ten yards down the hill, Cleo’s target was already crumpled at the base of a pine tree.
There was a trace of amusement in her voice. “But adequate.”
“Enough prattle,” Cleo’s righthand man, Jamal Carter, said over the comm. Both men were down. The transport was theirs. “Get in the truck. Let’s move.”
Gabriel clenched his jaw. Everything they’d worked and suffered for—it started now. Tomorrow meant everything. They would either win, or lose it all.
14
Micah
“We’re going to win tomorrow,” Fiona said brightly, her eyes shining as she stared up at the dark canopy of sky above them. The clouds were so thick they obscured the stars. She sipped a steaming cup of tea Luciana had given her. “I have a good feeling.”